STAR TREK®: VULCAN'S HEART

by Josepha Sherman

  Remembering Romulan strength, she had half-expected to die there. But surprisingly, alarmingly, he had been almost gentle.

  Of course he was gentle, damn him. Don’t want to break the golden-haired prize, do we?

  Well, she’d survived the predators of Turkana IV. At least here, the Romulan was the only male she had to worry about—she hoped.

  Richard would have wanted his crew to live. Richard . . .

  Abruptly revolted, Tasha rolled out from beneath her captor’s arm and off the bed’s silken sheets. One quick punch would crush whatever passed for a windpipe among Romulans.

  And if I kill him, what happens to my crew?

  “Excellent reaction time,” the Romulan commented, opening his eyes. “Very agile. All quite satisfactory.”

  He stretched self-indulgently, his eyes heating as he surveyed her.

  Damn this Romulan bastard for lying there as if she were no threat! How long had he been awake, studying her?

  She snatched up the brocaded robe he had let her wear all too briefly the night before, and belted it about herself. Tightly.

  Something approaching amusement flickered in his eyes. “Modesty? Somewhat late for that, isn’t it?” He paused, head cocked. “Blood-green becomes you. I chose well.”

  “We made a deal,” Tasha reminded him. Watch him go back on his word, she told herself. He might find it really funny to make me sell myself, then execute my crew after all.

  “A deal.” Smiling, the Romulan repeated her words. “Remind me.”

  She forced herself to meet his eyes without blinking. He was taller and bulkier than many Romulans and, as she now had personal knowledge, immensely strong. His face was powerful rather than aristocratically chiseled—not exactly unattractive, though, a traitor corner of her mind noted before she repressed it firmly. That was the body of a fighting general, not an administrator. Trouble.

  Intelligence briefings claimed that Romulans had a strong honor code. What if Romulan honor was strictly reserved for Romulans?

  “You remember,” she told him flatly. “You wanted me. I wanted my crew’s lives.”

  “Ah, so that was why you didn’t try to kill me!”

  “Would your guards honor your word posthumously?”

  Shockingly, Volskiar laughed. “Not just beauty and that golden hair, but almost Romulan wit and spirit. I honor you with the truth: My guards are sworn to me. If you had succeeded in assassinating me, they would have killed your crew. You, too, but lingeringly. Now, come here.”

  Remember your bargain. Time to pay up. Again.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. But instead of pulling her to him, he merely caught her by the chin with delicate care, turning her to face him. His eyes were . . . what was hiding in that darkness? Not anything as uncomplicated as lust.

  “I have decided,” Volskiar said after a moment. “I want more from you than our bargain.”

  Her astonishment must surely be showing in her face. “What does that mean?”

  But without a word of explanation, he released her and got to his feet, pulling on a robe as elegantly brocaded as her own, and switched on a comm set at the desk.

  “Volskiar to bridge. Maintain course to the homeworld. Top warp speed, Victorious alone. I shall deliver my report to our praetor myself. No, I still do not wish to be disturbed. Out.”

  Glancing back at her over his shoulder, he added, “This victory means I can afford to be generous.” But then he paused, frowning. “You tremble.”

  Damn him. “I’m chilly,” Tasha said flatly.

  “Easily remedied.” Volskiar opened the supply locker and took out a bottle and a goblet—metal, Tasha thought, since you didn’t keep anything breakable on a warship, but intricately engraved. Pouring out something that she recalled went down like oranges, fire, and engine-room jungle-juice, he sipped, then handed it to her.

  Is he showing me there’s no poison in the goblet? Why else would he want me to drink from his cup? God help me, he’s not going sentimental, is he?

  “This will warm you,” he told her. “Drink.”

  She was still shaking, curse it.

  “Your eyes are blue fire,” Volskiar murmured. “I told you: drink.” He placed the goblet in her hands, folding his around them, watching her, always watching.

  Already, she knew what was and what was not a request. She sipped cautiously at the liqueur—which, curse it, was warming. He nodded encouragingly and sat down beside her, not quite touching her, his higher-than-human body heat almost comforting.

  Tasha sipped again. As a security officer, she found the Romulan’s tactics familiar. In fact, he was damned good at playing good cop/bad cop all by himself. Did Romulans also have the equivalent of what used to be called Stockholm Syndrome back on Earth? Volskiar acted as if he was just waiting for it to kick in.

  “I don’t know what lies they tell of us in the Federation,” he said in a voice that was just a shade short of cajoling, “but, for a woman like you, the Empire can hold many very . . . pleasant things. You shall see them at my side.”

  “As a prize of war?”

  “As my companion. My consort.” And then he spoiled that by adding, “I shall be much envied.”

  “A prize,” she said dryly.

  He touched her hair, smoothing it back. “You misunderstand. Many other rewards await me. The disgrace and death of that overprivileged traitor. This time, the old emperor won’t be able to protect her, and you shall watch her punishment with me, and know how I have risen in importance.”

  Tasha froze. She remembered the Romulan woman, clearly an officer, who had been in the brig when she and the other survivors had been transferred, and the look of perfect understanding that had flashed between them. It had been the only clean thing that had happened all that day.

  Dammit, she was shaking again.

  Volskiar pulled her into his arms. “I know that humans weep. If you wish to do so, there is no shame. I know so much has happened that it has made you ill. But I wanted to claim you quickly so that all might just as quickly know you are now a woman of status. And so that we could start to reach an understanding.”

  Wrong order, Tasha thought sardonically. Nevertheless, there seemed to be genuine concern in his voice, in the premeditated gentleness of his hands. He could simply have used her, then ordered the deaths of her crew and her along with them. But he hadn’t.

  Maybe I can use that, get him off guard. . . .

  “I want to keep you with me,” Volskiar murmured into her hair, “bind you to me. And not as a prize, never merely that.”

  He must have felt her tense, because he drew back, smiling at her. “Does that surprise you?”

  “I have only one question: Why?”

  But with a sudden shock of insight, she knew, and knew what had been hiding in those dark, alien eyes.

  My God. You’re smitten, aren’t you, Volskiar? God, yes, you are. Oh, what a weapon you’ve just given me!

  “Would it be so very terrible if you responded to me?” Volskiar asked, and now that Tasha understood what lay behind the words, she had to fight not to laugh in his face. “Or started by simply not resisting me?”

  She said nothing.

  “I can wait for you to yield,” he said. “Time is on my side, and I like a challenge.”

  She remained silent.

  “Are you afraid I will break my word? Never. You will see, Tasha. We will have no further talk of bargains.”

  No, mister, she told him silently, you’ll see.

  He eased her back down against the pillows. With deliberate gentleness, he traced her throat with a finger.

  “Your skin is so cool,” he whispered. “Delightful.”

  Tasha forced herself not to resist as he caressed her. There could be no escape aboard this ship. But later . . . on Romulus . . .

  Her breath caught in her throat as his hand stroked downward.

  On Romulus she would have time to plan. It was difficult to think clearly right now. But love
-struck as this fool was, once he thought she was gentled, acquiescent . . . and once her crew was safe . . .

  It was worth the gamble. After all, she had not expected to live even this long.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  KI BARATAN, ROMULUS, DAY 8, SECOND WEEK OF TASMEEN, YEAR 2344

  All bureaucracies, Spock thought, looked remarkably the same. There might be an elegant or imposing façade to impress outsiders—but the real business of running a government or a world or, for that matter, a Federation or Empire, went on in plain buildings such as this gray, faceless complex that loomed up before him. The morning sunlight, breaking through heavy cloud layers, made it no more appealing.

  By now, those rebels who worked in the government should have the false research project—innocuous and utterly boring—well under way. The subject of grain consumption was large and intricate enough to require various aides and assistants to calculate, track, and correlate its many details. Not surprising that the Academician Symakhos should find it all . . . fascinating.

  It is a project suitable for a noble scholar with good intentions and far too much free time. As those in Starfleet might say, “a perfect cover.” And as Dralath investigates, he will find nothing at all suspicious.

  Of course, Dralath would be investigating: There were certainly spies within the Imperial Palace, as well as spy devices just outside the walls to keep track of Shiarkiek’s latest visitors, and of their utterly conventional departure yesterday from the palace.

  At the same time, Dralath’s interrogation clearly had not broken Narviat—not yet. Had the praetor succeeded, armed guards would be waiting to greet Spock’s approach.

  Instead, there was only the one bored guard at the plain metal door, clearly wishing himself anywhere even remotely more suitable to a warrior’s honor. He glanced at Spock and his “aide,” Ruanek (unhappy in dull gray clerical robes), with all the casual contempt of a true Romulan soldier for civilians, then shrugged and waved them in without so much as a word.

  Too easy an entrance?

  No. A sudden quick flash and an almost inaudible whirr warned Spock that once again he’d been scanned down to his genetic code. He knew a moment’s uncertainty—

  But no alarms erupted. The guard never stirred from his post. It would seem that the security scan for all government buildings was based on the same program and received the same data as did the Central Court: a definite weakness in an otherwise excellent system. The greatest risk was that someone in Dralath’s security system might match the genetic pattern of this scholar’s aide with that of Subcommander Ruanek of House Minor Strevon—but it would take that “someone” time to make the connection. After all, what Romulan warrior would want to break into a bureaucrats’ stronghold? Particularly (much to Ruanek’s discomfort) a warrior who was unarmed save for his Honor Blade?

  Ahead, drab gray corridors radiated off a central atrium, monitored by a dour clerk at a battered desk under a grimy skylight. The clerk seemed engrossed by the pages of a scholarly journal. Or, Spock thought, catching a glance of a decidedly unscholarly illustration, perhaps not.

  Ruanek, meanwhile, was grumbling under his breath over the situation, as he had from the moment they’d been snubbed by the guard outside. His pride or dignity were hurt—but any concerns about his status were illogical. And the not-quite-audible complaints were rapidly growing . . . irritating. Spock whirled on him with a sharp “Silence!”

  Ruanek blinked, startled. Very warily, he whispered, “Are you all right?”

  “I am,” Spock snapped. “I was merely impersonating a genuine academician scolding an unruly research assistant.”

  “Of . . . course.”

  Ignoring that wary irony, Spock approached the clerk, who had been watching them as though glad for any disruption. “I am the Academician Symakhos—”

  “Corridor B, Room 235.”

  With an abstracted wave at the proper corridor, the clerk returned to his . . . reading. And Spock . . .

  . . . felt a renewed stirring of the Fires, a fierce, irrational surge of how dare he be so contemptuous—

  No!

  No. Rudeness such as this was unimportant; strong reaction was illogical. And he—he had known the respite from Pon farr would be only temporary.

  There is only logic . . . logic is the cornerstone . . .

  Silently reciting Discipline after Discipline, Spock stalked down Corridor B, Ruanek in his wake. He knocked on the door to Room 235 in the double-single-double pattern on which he and the rebels had decided.

  Room 235 was as gray and bland as everything else, a small chamber crowded with antiquated files, old-fashioned tape storage, and somewhat more modern consoles. The rebels who had found an excuse to be in here sprang up in alarm, eyes fierce. Then, recognizing “Symakhos,” they settled back again, looking once more like minor civil servants, right down to the careful blandness of their expressions. Piles of printouts and books surrounded them, and they wore gray robes to protect their clothing from the dust. Ruanek stifled a sneeze.

  “Academician,” a woman said warily. “You spent a restful night, I trust?”

  “That,” Spock said without expression, “is not precisely the word.” After leaving the palace, he and Ruanek had taken a room in a lodging catering to provincial scholars, an austere place with the sour smell of genteel poverty clinging to it. There, they had been relatively safe in academic anonymity, although they had cautiously alternated standing guard. Neither had rested very well. Once, Spock had opened his eyes to see Ruanek watching him as if he were a disruptor that just might explode. “Has all been made ready?”

  “The others are already here. Fewer than before, of course. You can hardly expect everyone to have the freedom granted a scholar of your social standing.”

  “Of course.” It was only logical that the excuse of scholarly research would allow for a very finite number of “aides.” “We will work with what we have. Have there been visitors?”

  “Oh yes,” said a thin-faced young man . . . Jarrin, Spock recalled. “Two times so far, ‘attendants’ have stopped by to see how we were managing.”

  Ridda, a sturdy woman of no certain age, snorted. “And checked our materials too thoroughly for mere ‘attendants.’ He’s going to be disappointed to learn that the Academician Symakhos really is studying grain statistics!”

  Spock gave her a sharp, warning glare. With meticulous pedantry that made the Romulans mutter under their breath, he paged through every bit of the gathered material, shuffling printouts and rearranging books, until he had found: “What is this? Surely some manner of security device?” Before the others could react, he added, “Tsk, carelessness. Carelessness and waste. Someone must be wondering even now where he lost it. We shall keep it safe till that someone returns for it.”

  Spock wrapped the tiny spy eye up with fussy care, so securely that no signal could be received by anyone watching or listening. A continued search revealed no other devices, at least none that he could find. Ruanek, leaning against a wall, grinned maliciously.

  “Poor ‘attendants.’ How frustrated they’re going to be! And—”

  “We have delayed long enough,” Spock cut in. “Leave those statistical charts and guard the door.”

  Were the others startled by his sudden curtness? Spock received several uneasy glares as two burly “clerks” identified as Darit and Gerrack moved to obey. The others lifted a massive file cabinet to one side, careful not to scrape it against the floor, to reveal a ragged opening in one wall. Clearly, it had been created by disruptor fire just a short while ago: blackened ash still flaked off the edges.

  That was finished before Dralath had the chance to plant any spy devices, or we would all already be under arrest.

  With a wary glance back at Spock, Ruanek crept through the opening. Spock cautiously followed him into a dark, windowless room thick with dust and the webs of the Romulan equivalent of arachnids. The computer consoles that had been set down in a hastily cleared area seemed almo
st jarringly modern amid the dust.

  “We asked for Corridor B,” Jarrin said, grinning, “because I remembered that it was slated for renovation. My excuse was that the Academician Symakhos needed quiet if he were to concentrate. That Room 235 should happen to adjoin this ancient store-room was pure luck.”

  “Luck,” Spock said, “is not logical. And while you are congratulating yourself on your cleverness, let me remind you that Dralath is not a fool. He is certain to have already puzzled out that Symakhos, Commander Charvanek, and Admiral Narviat are connected. Narviat clearly has not yet been forced to betray us, but his release must be our first priority.”

  Spock heard mutters of agreement. As the rebels had made clear to him back in the caves, their loyalty was to Narviat, not to him.

  No matter. As long as we continue working toward the same goal.

  Dralath sat in the main conference room, at the head of the long oval table guarded by well-hidden sonic devices and disruptors, as his advisors droned on about crop failures in this district and grain shipments in that province. And all the while, he maintained just enough control to keep from tapping his fingers impatiently on the shining stone.

  Where was Volskiar? How long could it possibly take to clean out a nest of Klingons? Surely it was time and past time for the attack on Narendra III to be over and for the fleet to be returning to the homeworlds—yet he had received no word at all. Volskiar could not possibly have been defeated, not by a puling group of Klingon children and elders!

  I need that easy victory, that triumphal procession, all that heroic glitter and glory. I truly need it. And if he does not give it to me . . .

  Narviat continued to resist all attempts to wear him down. Unless Dralath could extract a confession and the names of accomplices from him, Narviat’s death would smack of personal revenge rather than a credible State execution of a traitor. . . .